


Like Neighbor and Weigh

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-22
Updated: 2006-07-22
Packaged: 2018-10-27 11:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10808202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Somewhere in Arkansas, and Dean's having a bad dream, eyelids twitching, mouth pulled into a frown. Sam rolls over in bed and touches the tips of his fingers to Dean's face: pinkie against the dent above his upper lip, thumb against his jaw, middle finger on the curve of his eyebrow.





	Like Neighbor and Weigh

Somewhere in Arkansas, and Dean's having a bad dream, eyelids twitching, mouth pulled into a frown. Sam rolls over in bed and touches the tips of his fingers to Dean's face: pinkie against the dent above his upper lip, thumb against his jaw, middle finger on the curve of his eyebrow.

Dean twitches. His face smooths out. He shifts his legs, bare feet curled pale against the mattress where the sheet's fallen halfway off the bed.

Sam curves his hand around Dean's hip. _Iliac crest_ , he thinks, vague terms from a college anatomy class. _Iliac spine. Acetabulum._ He falls asleep like that, late afternoon sun hot on his back.

***

"That's disgusting," Sam says.

Dean pokes his fork into the yolk of his other egg and beams as it oozes out all over his toast. "I think the word you're looking for is 'delicious,'" he says.

"I think the _real_ word I'm looking for is 'salmonella,'" Sam says. He leans over the table to snatch a strip of bacon off Dean's plate. It's hot. He drops it on his own plate and sticks his fingers in his mouth.

"That's what you get," Dean says. "I told you to order your own."

"I just want one piece," Sam says. "Quit being so greedy."

"Fine, so gimme some of your home fries." Dean raises his coffee mug to his mouth, but the corners of his eyes crease, and Sam can still tell that he's smiling.

"You can have five," Sam says magnanimously.

"Stingy bastard," Dean says.

"I told you to order your own," Sam says.

***

Sam changes the bandage on Dean's back, high up, right in the middle of his left shoulderblade. Three claw marks, from not ducking fast enough. Sam opens up his first aid kit and lays things in rows on the bedspread: Neosporin, gauze, tape, scissors.

"Ouch," Dean says when Sam rips the bandage off.

Sam rolls his eyes. "You should have ducked faster," he says. The cuts are deep but healing fine, not infected. Sam smears Neosporin on them, using the pad of his thumb, aware of every subtle movement of Dean's body.

"I ducked fast enough," Dean says. He has broad, pale shoulders, heavy shifting layers of muscle covered with constellations of freckles, like spattered coffee. Sam wipes off the excess Neosporin on his jeans and runs his thumb down Dean's back, pressing in deep right beside his spine. Dean shivers.

"Hold still," Sam murmurs. He cuts off four strips of tape and sets one on each side of a square of gauze. Dean bends his head down, hunching his back. Sam presses the new bandage against Dean's skin, rubbing firmly until he's sure it will stick.

"Thanks," Dean says.

Sam clears his throat. "I'll check it again tomorrow."

***

"Hold still," Dean says, and presses Sam's leg up further, tucking it beneath Sam's chest. The pillowcase beneath Sam's mouth is wet where he's been chewing on it.

Dean bites him carefully, setting his teeth in the hollow of Sam's lower back, spit and sweat mixing. He puts both hands on Sam's ass and spreads him open, touches him there, dry fingers rubbing circles. Sam bucks against Dean's hands. He feels split, peeled.

"I'm not going to fuck you," Dean says. He nestles his cock between Sam's legs, the head nudging at Sam's balls, and rocks against him. "Yeah. Just like that."

Sam bites at his own fist and tries not to moan.

***

"I hate summer," Dean grumbles.

"You hate all the seasons," Sam says. He leans against the side of the car and watches Dean fuss around with the gas pump. "Winter's too cold. Spring gives you allergies."

"Fuckin' hay fever," Dean says. He scowls at the pump. "No way am I paying three bucks for a gallon of gas."

"Actually, I think you are," Sam says, "seeing as how we're running on empty and there probably isn't another gas station for fifty miles."

"Fuckin' Nevada," Dean says.

Sam looks past Dean, past the gas pump, out at the highway and the miles of desert beyond, the blue sky bigger than God.

Dean stands beside him, resting his arms on the roof of the car. The metal's probably burning hot. They listen to the pump whir. It's too hot to do much talking. Sam hooks his fingers in the front pocket of Dean's pants, tugs until their hips bump together. Dean turns his head and looks at him, squinting against the bright sun.

"Now baby, you know my feelings about PDA," Dean says.

"As often and as much as possible?" Sam says.

"Yeah, basically," Dean says. "You want me to blow you in the bathroom?"

"Okay," Sam says.

***

Dean likes his eggs over-easy, his coffee black, and his meat practically raw. He likes driving. He puts his jeans on one leg at a time. He pees in the shower.

"You're so gross," Sam says.

"Saves time," Dean says. "Whatever, Sammy, it all ends up in the same place."

Dean watches bad cop shows from the 80s and any medical drama ever made. He pretends he doesn't watch Oprah. He likes slow, lazy kissing. He likes to stick his fingers in Sam's mouth while Sam goes down on him. He likes apples. He talks in his sleep.

"Take the orange moon to the west," he orders Sam.

"The what?" Sam asks, digging around his duffel for a somewhat clean pair of boxers.

"The orange moon! You fuckhead! Take it to the west!" Dean snaps. Sam throws a shirt at his head. Dean doesn't wake up.

Dean has a thick, ridged scar on the inside of his right thigh. He has a birthmark on the sole of his right foot. He's ticklish. He hates cats. He's impossible to get along with. He loves it when Sam sucks on his nipples but he'll never ask for it.

"I know everything about you," Sam says, licking behind Dean's knee.

"Shut up and fuck me," Dean pants.

***

In South Carolina, Sam's hit by some sort of spell and loses his vision for three days.

"Now who should have ducked faster," Dean says, handing him a shirt.

Sam runs his fingers along the shirt's neckline. Sure enough, there's a tiny hole in it. "I know we haven't done laundry since you threw up on this one," he says.

"Can't blame me for trying," Dean says.

"Nice, Dean. Give the vomit shirt to the invalid." Sam throws the shirt in the general direction of Dean's voice.

"You're the one who let me eat those sprouts," Dean says. "Payback's a bitch."

"Fuck you," Sam says. He holds out his hands and waits for Dean to give him another shirt. "I want the purple one."

"It's dirty," Dean says. "I'll have to give you one of mine."

"Yours are too small."

"Maybe you're just too big," Dean says.

"Funny, you don't usually complain about it," Sam says. He steps forward cautiously, flailing his arms like a zombie, until he runs into Dean. "Gimme a shirt," he mumbles, burying his face against Dean's neck.

Dean's arms come up, stroke along Sam's bare back. "Hey," he says. "Sam. It's just a few days."

"I know," Sam says. "I want a sandwich."

"I'll make you one in a minute," Dean says.

***

Sam wakes up first. Dean's drooling on his chest. It's not quite dawn. He reaches back and slips two fingers into Dean, twists. Dean's still loose and slick with Sam's come. Sam rubs his fingers in tight circles and waits.

Dean shifts his legs, makes a noise in his throat. "You gonna fuck me?" he asks, and yawns.

"I was thinking about it," Sam says.

"Well, you let me know when you decide," Dean says. His hardening cock bumps against Sam's thigh.

Sam pulls his fingers out and then presses back in with three. Dean jerks. "In a minute," Sam says.

***

Things aren't easy. They get hurt. Sometimes they run out of valid credit cards and have to spend a few nights sleeping in the car. Dean does something stupid and they yell at each other for half an hour. Sam does something stupid and Dean won't talk to him for two days. They fuck in showers, restaurant bathrooms, and the occasional parking lot.

Sam falls into it like he's been doing it his whole life, like he never went away. They do laundry at midnight. He cuts Dean's hair for him, bends him over the sink and runs the electric clippers over his head. Dean flirts with every woman in the world but doesn't go home with any of them.

They make friends with a palm-reader in Miami. She leaves Dean cooling his heels in the living room and pulls Sam into the kitchen to look at his hand. "Stop being such a jackass," she says. "Anything I could tell you, you already know. Let it happen."

"What'd she say?" Dean asks when they're heading out to the car.

"What'd she say to _you_?" Sam shoots back.

Dean grabs the front of Sam's shirt and kisses him right there, in the middle of the street, the hot noonday sun shining down on them. "None of your business," he says.

"I guess not," Sam says. He sticks his hands in Dean's back pockets and holds on.

Some teenagers on bikes ride by and holler encouragement at them. Dean grins against Sam's mouth.

"Let's go to the beach," Sam says. He feels reckless and giddy. It's February. They might as well go swimming.

"You aren't afraid of sharks?" Dean asks.

"You'll probably save me," Sam says.

Dean lets go of him, steps away. He's smiling. "Only if I'm feeling nice," he says.  



End file.
